


Body Pillow 4 (The Finale)

by sciderman



Series: The Body Pillow Series [4]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Dates, Fluff, Humor, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciderman/pseuds/sciderman
Summary: Peter Parker is a train wreck, but he can say with confidence there's at least one good thing going for him. (The closing chapter to the Body Pillow series).





	Body Pillow 4 (The Finale)

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for the longest time ever. Like a year. It's probably too late, but again, it's never really too late for love.

Hi, I'm Spider-man, and I've _really_ got myself in a pickle this time.

That might be the phrase I use to kick off _every_ chapter of my life, but trust me, I'll stop using it once it stops being appropriate.

“Spidey! Hey! Hey, Spidey!” Deadpool coos at me, from below. He waves his arms ecstatically, leaping on the spot like a tick. I'm perched on a low roof above him, and I swing over to join the ex-merc, expression feigning disinterest.

Wade has the composure of an ecstatic child, knock-kneed and fists balled tight, close to his heart.

 In all my time working with Peter Parker, I've realised one thing. He's an idiot _._

 Peter Parker is a fool for falling for this guy.

 “I'm thinking about proposing to my boyfriend. What do you think? Should I go for the wedding ring on a breadstick routine? Or should I take him to a baseball game-”

 “You've been dating for 2 weeks.”

 “God, Spidey, how are you always so in-the-know about mine and Pete's relationship? You keep track of it better than I do _.”_

  _“Someone_ has to”, I mumble. “Why do you keep coming to me for advice?”

 “You're the only one who knows Pete almost as well as me.”

 “Yeah, almost _.”_ I shake my head, bringing a hand to rub my temple. “I can't help you on this one, Wilson. I'm, uh, late for, uh- This cookery class I'm taking. Just- uh, listen to your heart _._ ” I stammer out with a messy thwip, flinging myself up up and away.

  _“_ Wow! Thanks a lot _,_ Spidey! If I wanted a generic Valentines card phrase, I would've bought ‘em in a 10 pack! I was gonna ask you to be best man, but now? You're not even invited! You hear me?”

 I hear him.

 No, I'm not running away from my problems. Web-slinging away is quite different. Involves less shame, feels a lot less rotten after. I guess it's the way gravity doesn't get to work too hard on your heart, so you don't get that nasty heart-sinking that comes with the feeling of shame.

 Just so you know, that’s all bullhockey. I feel shame _._ I feel it ten-fold.

 I fall right through my apartment window, collapsing straight onto the floor in what must look like a human puddle.

“Why do you put yourself through this? _”_ I groan, face pressed against cool laminate floor. “You've got one good thing going for you. He's got two thumbs, two eyes, thighs like a _tree_ and a smile like _sunshine.”_ I heave a sigh, “You don't have to screw that up too.”

Yeah, I do .

 Before you ask “Uhhh, why don't you just _tell_ him, Pete? He's stopped mercenary work, he loves you, you love hi–” Shut up, just _shut up_.

We've been dating for two weeks. Most couples don't even get to third base two weeks in. (We _have_ , but that's not important.) You think I'd reveal my biggest secret with somebody I've been sucking face with for just a few weeks?  

 You're right, I _would_.

  _Usually._

 I'm _usually_ a very moralistic person.

But - But _Wade Wilson._ This guy is _Wade Wilson._ I think he's granted as some kind of exception to any rules on this topic. So far, Wade's been an exception to _every_ rule I've ever laid down.

  1. Don't befriend mercenaries _(especially Wade Wilson)_
  2. Do not _sympathise_ with mercenaries _(that means Wade Wilson)_
  3. Do not become infatuated with a mercenary _(certainly not Wade Wilson!)_
  4. Do not purchase body pillows with said mercenary printed provocatively on it (I'm _really_ serious about this one!!!)



I don't know how Wade now being an _ex-_ mercenary effects this ruling, but it doesn't change the fact that all four of these rules were broken while I had no knowledge of Wade quitting mercenary work. My behaviour was entirely out-of-bounds.

I am ashamed.

My not-telling Wade my secret identity has nothing to do with my not trusting him – in fact, I probably trust him far more than I _should_. The reason I've not told him is because I'm not ready to face his reaction.

I do what I do a _lot_ , in regards to Wade. I fantasise. I try and picture, as best as I can, how it'll go, when I finally spill the beans.

" _I'm Spider-man.”_

 And he bursts out laughing.

I look down and realise I'm in only my underwear, completely exposed. He flips his long, beautiful blonde hair and turns away, telling me it's over, and he's not going to prom with me.

I wake up screaming.

Okay, I'm being irrational. I'm totally irrational. When have I ever been known to be rational? I know exactly how absurd I'm being.

But I also know I have been actively lying to Wade for the past two months.

Yes, it comes with the super-hero gig, but it's still _lying_. Of everything included in the package deal of being Spidey, lying to people I care about is the worst part. But it's hard to stop. Once you start up a lie, it's hard to finish it, and suddenly you find yourself being asked to be best man at your own wedding.

I push up from the floor, at last, shrugging out of my suit, and shrugging into my bed. I grip the pillow in my hands, _that_ pillow. The one that caused this whole mess. I look at the red-clad man gazing flirtatiously at me.

I say to him:

 _“You_ , you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

I wish I could convince myself that were true, but no dice. I hook my arms and legs tightly around the pillow, and let myself sleep.

I wish it were the real thing.

I eat those thoughts as I'm woken, one hour later, by who else?

“Pete! Petey! My little gumdrop!” He calls through the door, much to the frustration of my neighbours, who I can hear groaning through the walls.

I stomp to the door, wrenching it open just enough to address the cheery masked man behind it.

“You call me your little _gumdrop_ again, I'll gum _drop_ you out of the window.”

“Wow! I love you too!” He says, dumbly. I breathe out, turning and walking, letting him make himself at home. “You know, when you get all irritable like this, you really remind me of somebody.”

“Yeah?” I grumble. “Who's that?”

“Can't put my finger on it. It's driving me crazy _._ Maybe it's triggering flashbacks from my family home. I was never loved as a child.” Deadpool says nonchalantly, shifting one of the ornaments placed on a cabinet. It sounds like he's joking.

“Poor thing.” I echo his distant tone.

He snorts.

“I’ve got fireworks. Thought we could set em up in Central Park, and cuddle on a park bench. Pretend to be hobos.”

“Not that that doesn't sound outrageously romantic, but…” I start, resting my hands comfortably on Wade's broad chest, “It's out of season. Pretty sure that's illegal.”

“Illegal is just another word for _romantic,_ isn't it?”

“You're not planning to propose, are you?”

“Pcccht! _Whaaaat?_ No! Who told you that? We've only been dating for two weeks, Pete! Simmer down!”

“Two weeks is a very long and happy lifetime for most species of insects.”

“We're not bugs.”

“You sure? Cuz’ you're _buggin_ me.”

“Wow, hoo, see? It’s a good thing we’re not getting hitched because that joke? That joke kind of makes me want a divorce.”

I can’t hold back my crooked grin, as my hands slide from his chest to his back, pulling him in for a laughter-muffled kiss. For some reason, Wade’s body tenses when I initiate it, but he melts right into it within a second. Maybe he’s not used to getting the moves pulled on him. My lips pass a sigh. For some reason, that thought makes me a little sad.

“Hey,” I whisper, parting lips with him for a second, keeping our faces a breath apart, “Dump those very illegal fireworks on the floor. I’ve thought up something better to do.”

 

* * *

 

I never could’ve imagined how beautiful scarred skin would look against my off-white bed sheets.

“Your room is a mess”, Wade says, his voice is a warm caress on my ears. His bare chest is spread under my fingers, rising and falling gently. He raises a hand to swim through my hair. “Your hair's a mess”, a heavenly whisper.

“I'm a mess”.

“Amen to that”.

Wade shuffles out of our comfortable canoodle suddenly, leaving me just about to vocalise my dismay before he returns, with an addition to the party.

He squeezes it between us; an awkward sandwich. I raise my head just enough to glimpse the intruder.

“Such a shame he couldn't get in on the action,” Wade says in a sigh, face turned to grin at me.

“Sorry, my bed has a maximum occupancy of only one Wade Wilson at any one time.” I shove at the body pillow with a snicker, before tossing it over Wade's head, to the wall to the right side of us.

“Aw! Come on! Everybody knows you haven't made _real_ love until you're making love to two of me, simultaneously”, Wade cooes, hooking his arms around my waist. Wade's a cuddler. I'm really not surprised.

“I don't think I'd be able to satisfy the both of you”.

“But it's your lawful dutyyyy!” Wade whines, burying his face into my shoulder. He clamps my body tight against his, and rocks a little. and I’m reminded of the repercussions of having a lover with a healing factor.

“Wade! Again? Really?”

“At least if we went with the fireworks I'd be guaranteed _multiple bangs,_ Peter!”

 

* * *

 

Thoroughly exhausted after what is definitely excessive of your daily recommended allowance of lovemaking, I'm on the verge of what must be the most well-earned sleep in my life. My chin rests on Wade's chest, eyes heavy as I try my best to return his loving gaze.

Wade's grin is warm, and downright goofy. Mine can't be any better. He leans up enough to brush sweat soaked hair off my forehead, and press a kiss there. My heart lurches.

“Go out to lunch with me tomorrow?” Wade's voice rings, small, and uncertain. It's impossible to conceive this is the same man that joked about _proposing_ just a few hours ago, now looking positively fragile and prepared to shatter over a _lunch date_.

I can't speak for a moment, a rush of some sort of feeling filling my body.

Up until now, this has been a _behind-closed-doors_ sort of affair.

“You mean in an actual restaurant? Outside? Around _people?_ ”

Wade’s fingers stop their journey through my hair, his eyes downturned. His lips retreat into a small line.

Oh god, he thinks I'm turning him down.

I rise up to kiss him. Soft, long, and with purpose.

It's abrupt enough that I get a glimpse of his wide eyed expression when I pull away.

“I'd love to, Wade.”

I love you, Wade.

His grin returns, softer.

We fall asleep in each other’s arms.

 

* * *

 

“Are you _sure_ you’re not planning to propose?” I speak over the somewhat excessive arrangement of flowers obscuring Wade’s face at the table.  

He’s taken me to a classy joint. White tablecloths, and everything on the menu costs more than $20. Some bottles cost more than my life does. I’m glad I don’t drink.

“Too much?”

“I think it’s a little too much, yeah.”

Wade grins, toothy and wide, peering from behind the flowers on the table.

“Only trying to romance you.”

“Consider me romanced”, I say peering from behind the menu.

I actively avoid the breadsticks.

It doesn’t take the waitress long to approach our table, and Wade’s halfway through ordering when the table shakes. A fork clangs onto the floor, and the water glasses ripple and spill. The waitress struggles to keep her footing. Then it goes quiet.

The restaurant is full of whispers of “What the hell was that?” before it happens again, the rumbling getting louder.

Wade only looked mildly frustrated.

I turn to look out the window, to see Captain America, Iron Man and the like sprinting past the place. I chew my lip.

“Shouldn’t you”, I say, a little anxious, “probably help?”

“Do I”, Wade said in response, his brow furrowed despite the absence of eyebrows, “look like an avenger?”

Car alarms, and a wilhelm scream sound effect.

Wade heaves a sigh.

“I should g–” “I need to go to the bathroom.”

We look at each other for a long moment, before Wade takes off out the front door, removing his shirt and audibly cursing under his breath. I see his suit of red, and for a second I admire how heroic the sight is. Before I rush to the restroom.

I throw myself inside a stall, wriggling out of my frankly a-little-too-tight dress shirt. I probably hadn’t needed to wear a dress shirt since college. Had I really grown that much since then? Must be muscle. I yank down my trousers. Then I’m webbing the stall shut from the inside, webbing my clothes in a bundle against the stall wall, and climbing upwards.

I couldn’t take the front door. Wade’s right out there. He’d put two and two together. It had to be the restroom window.

The, “nff”, tiny, “grh”, not-made-for-use-as-an-exit, “NGG!”, restroom window.

I swear I hear a “Pop!” sound as I finally squeeze through, landing face-first into an alleyway. Then I was off.

Just your run of the mill catastrophe. Happens on the weekly, here in NYC.

First of my concerns was getting civilians out of the way of debris being thrown about by our monster of the week. That’s who I am, hero of the people.

“Get yer hands off of me, Spider-freak!”

I love the people, and the people love me.

“Hey! Watch it, I’m trying to get a video of this for Youtube.”

“Lot of good that video’ll be when you’re too dead to upload it!” I fling the teenager out of the way. But I don’t manage to save their phone. Whoops.

“My dad’s a lawyer, asshole! You’re paying for damages!”

“Oy”, I groan, swinging up high to get a spider’s perspective of the whole situation. I find myself subconsciously scanning the scene for the colour red.

I spot Deadpool, close to the ground, with a child held to his chest.

I think I have a heart condition. That, or there’s a tiny snake coiling around it and squeezing it like a stress ball. How can the sight of big, beautiful man Wade Wilson cradling a child in his arms strike me down straight through the chest like a bow and arrow?

It strikes through me so completely that I realise seconds too late that I didn’t sling my next web, and I fall like a stone.

 

* * *

 

“...ider-man…. Spider-man? Oh good, you’re coming to.”

“...wh… Wha’appen?”

Captain America bears down upon me with a pitiful, concerned look.

“You must’ve run out of web, son. You fell right out of the sky.”

I look around, at the cleared-off streets, and two parked emergency vehicles.

“The creature’s being handled. Thanks for your help.”

Some help. Conscious for all of three seconds.

I scan the crowd for a red mask.

“Deadpool?”

“He was just here. Said something about being late for a date.”

I shot up to my feet, immediately regretting it when my head wound up feeling so much heavier than my body.

“Hold on, son! Do you need medical treatment?”

For a second I grapple Captain America’s shoulders, using him as an anchor.

“M’fine. M’fine”, I say, whilst appearing clearly not fine.

After finishing groping our national icon, I make a mad sprint for the alleyway. Squeezing back through the window, landing foot-first into the toilet.

Thank god I’d flushed it before I left. Never making _that_ mistake again.

With the grace of a drunk, I pull on my clothes, shove right on through the restroom doors and land back at our lunch table. Wade (beautiful man) is sat, wide-eyed.

“You get beat up?” Wade says.

My body shoots up into full apprehension. “Whaaat! Nooo? Why would you say–”

“You came out of the ladies restroom”, Wade gestures, “The girls didn’t give you a hard time? I know whenever I accidentally used the ladies’ restroom, someone would always call the cops.” He raises his hands in false panic. “ _Help! There’s a man with katanas strapped to his back in the girl’s restroom at McDonalds!_ Glad to see times are changing.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave”, says our waitress.

“What? Why?”

“It’s–” the girl hesitates, gesturing to Wade’s ensemble, “It’s the katanas. Sir.”

Without a word, Wade stood up. The creak of his seat behind him rang through the entire restaurant, frightened customer’s eyes all fixed on his red suit.

“I have never, in all my days…” he grumbled, walking out the door.

 My hand slips into his, and I stumble after him.

 

* * *

 

This is the moment, I think to myself, watching Wade’s shimmering eyes reflect the light of passing cars.  

I can’t do it, I can’t lie to him forever. Not only is it morally wrong, it’s – as today proves – freaking difficult.

If the world was going to let this happen, the way I wanted it to be, with Wade by my side in sickness and in health; in favourable press reception and negative; in the adoption clinic, and in the sewers fighting mutant alligators... If this was going to happen, Wade had to know.

“You get photos?” Wade speaks up suddenly, and I almost jump out of my skin.

“Wha?” My eloquent answer.

“Of the fight, today. Were you in the toilet the whole time? There were some _amazing_ photo ops. Spidey like, face-planted the ground.”

I feel my face heat up. I bite out a reply, with grit teeth, “That so? Pity I missed it.”

Maybe it’s best to keep the secret identity after all.

Maybe I _can_ lie forever.

“Spider-man’s a pretty big loser, huh?” I say, red-faced.

“The kind of loser that gets toilet paper stuck on his shoe before going to battle?”

“Yep.” I mumble, miserably.

“The kind of loser who like, doesn’t disguise his voice _at all_ even when he’s trying to keep a secret?”

“Yep”, I sink, in shame.

“The kind of loser with brown eyes, brown hair, and a penchant for purchasing body pillows?”

“Ye–” I pause. Squint.

The biggest, worst, most awful knowing grin plastered itself on Wade’s face. I see every last tooth. It’s like gazing at a shark.

I look above and to my sides, half expecting to find a camera.

“Am I being punked?”

Wade presses a kiss to my lips, and I can’t do a thing but kiss back.

"I really want to know just how long you thought you were going to keep this up until I cottoned on", he says, thumb on my chin, keeping my eyes on his. 

"Uh... Forever?" I say, sheepish. "I swear, I was gonna tell you tonight, I –" 

Our kiss resumes, Wade (beautiful, _beautiful_ man) making his home on my lap. 

"We gonna make love on the fire escape?" I ask, innocent enough. 

"Oh, yeah, Spider-man." 

Now that sounds like a _terrific_ , not-at-all-bad, very good idea.


End file.
